


Something About the Light

by mad_and_moonly



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_and_moonly/pseuds/mad_and_moonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dawn can't find anyone to bring to her best friend's wedding, so she asks Ginsberg. Weirdness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something About the Light

Dawn willed herself to keep her hands in her lap.

She flipped through a tattered copy of LIFE– skimming over the articles about Tet and about some artist that was hospitalized after a madwoman shot him in his studio. She kept absolutely still until a photograph of boys in green jackets slogging in greener swamps made her stomach lurch and the magazine fluttered to the ground in a commotion of loudly flapping pages. Bending to retrieve it, she halted when a sudden pain flared in her scalp.

"Lord."

A grating singsong sounded from an interminable distance.

"Girl, you don’t have to put up with that."

Dawn cut her eyes to the far side of the salon– drifting over the rows of women dozing beneath dryers or waiting in barrel curlers for a stylist – to where her closest friend stood, apparently enamored with her reflection.

She eyed the dropped magazine and bit into her lower lip to distract herself from the astringent burn of the lye searing her hair straight. Possessed of the irrational anger that follows in the wake of pain, she spoke.

"I can’t believe you– cutting off all your hair when you’re supposed to be getting married in a week. What’s Mother Nichols gonna say when she sees you walk down the aisle with that fluffy looking natural?"

Valerie patted her hand around the circumference of her head as if appreciating the dark ringlets for the first time and faced Dawn with a snarky narrowing of her eyes.

"Like I care what she thinks. The woman is as blind as a mole. And I can’t believe you, mouthing off to me about my hair while you twitch under that plastic cap and try to convince me that my maid of honor is coming to my wedding without any date. I told you. Just ask somebody from that fancy job of yours."

Careful to avoid moving her head, Dawn slowly lowered her eyes to her vacant lap and focused on her nail beds.

"And I told you why that’s impossible."

Again she glanced toward Valerie who fiddled with the mass of curls that radiated a good four inches from her head. If she walked into the office with hair like that she’d be scanning the want ads for custodial work. After this Sunday, Val probably wouldn't have to work anyway.

"Nobody’s gonna mind if it’s just some guy from work. Junior and Frank are off at some base in the jungles of God knows where, and I won’t tell them if you won’t. Even if they were to show up– "

She rubbed a smudge of lipstick from her incisor with the precision of a surgeon.

"It’s 1968, honey. They can get over it."

  

* * *

  

"Whatever you wear, just make sure it’s clean. We don’t have to match. Just…"

Her typically calm face contorted into grimace.

"This is my closest friend’s wedding, and I have to make sure everything’s perfect for her special day."

She exhaled sharply, and judging by her tone she was fed up with both the bride to be and her damnable special day.

He’d seen her around before. She was a constant presence– carting around rye for Don and coffee for Joan. They’d only ever spoken in business sanctioned snatches, and by pure voyeurism he knew she was generally soft spoken but firm enough when a timecard didn’t match her memory. And now she had cornered him in the breakroom and asked him out on a date.

"Will there be food?"

Dawn wrinkled her nose in puzzlement at the precise moment Ginsberg realized how ridiculous the question was.

"It’s a wedding."

He decided to wait it out; raising an imperious brow until, adjusting the papers in her arms, she caved.

"Yes. There will be food."

"So there’ll be an open bar too."

"I suppose so."

He was late for an impending disaster with Ocean Spray, and the way she fidgeted from one foot to the other in that blue gingham was cute enough to convince him.

With a shrug that was intended to come off as noncommittal but was at odds with the rushed enthusiasm of his tone, he answered.

"I’ll go."

She looked less relieved than he hoped she would.

"What’s your name."

"Ginsberg?"

"No, your first name. I need it for the place card"

"Oh. Michael."

"Michael." she repeated, and the sound of it– low and voiced quietly as a memo to herself– surprised him. And even more surprising was that the roil of nausea that usually rode on the tails of his given name spoken aloud never came .

"Just don’t be late."

She added a grudging ’please’ and disappeared around the corner.

  

* * *

   

He wasn’t late.

As planned, he materialized on her front stoop that Sunday at nine– wrinkle free and visibly uncomfortable in a dark suit that actually fit him. With his hair combed into a wet looking neatness, he was handsome in a pale-eyed unsmiling way.

"You look nice."

His uniform of rumpled, mustard stained shirts and loose chinos didn’t do him justice.

Hands in pockets, Ginsberg stared down the street after a barking dog and toed a tuft of green that had sprouted in a crack that meandered through a length of the sidewalk and ended abruptly where pavement met brick.

"So do you."

His eyes flicked to hers, and she saw it– the wildness the girls went on and on about– tempered only slightly by the gravity of the suit. The symmetry was throwing her off. She was accustomed to seeing him in some state of disarray and the lack of clashing textiles made everything else about him stand out in relief– the sadness and the mania. His hand flexed and clenched at his side, and shouldering her pocketbook, she wondered if this was safe; if she was safe.

His descent from  the stairs was jerky with open impatience and her mind buzzed with rumors and with shadows of rumors. God, was she going to end up on a milk carton somewhere?

At length, she tugged on her gloves with new determination and offered him the bunch of flowers Valerie’s mother had delivered last night.

"Would you hold these for me?"

His dark brows furrowed in simulated shock, and she thrust the ribbon-bound daisies into his hands before he could answer.

He wasn’t going to get away with shit.

She was from Harlem.

  

* * *

  

Frank was here, and she was less lightheaded than she’d expected to be. She’d seen him at first through the sanctuary’s open doors, and she bit into her knuckle to keep from disturbing the procession.

He’d sauntered out of an unfamiliar sedan– his gait veering slightly to the right under the influence of some invisible injury. And the boy that she and her mother had raised– who hated oatmeal and traded marbles in front of the corner store until sundown– appeared in the doorway, six feet tall and scanning the room for a familiar face.

She spent the next two hours smiling among the other bridesmaids like a doll in a matched set and wondering why the hell Val would have her stand right next to the organ and why the hell she would stick all those daisies in her hair before chiding herself. Her closest friend was getting married, and she knew that she should be happy– that it was wrong to feel restless and left behind. She teared up in the name of tradition when the bride was given away and tuned out Ginsberg’s threat that he’d eat the fistfuls of rice that the congregation was throwing onto the bride and groom off of the sidewalk if he didn’t get dinner soon.

By the time the train of Valerie’s dress disappeared behind the door of a red lacquered Cutlass, Dawn was searching the milling mass of bodies for a green cap. And when she shakily stood on a hassock to better study the canopy of heads she found him– hatless and smoking beneath a warped photograph of the minister and his wife– looking a decade older than he should.

Suddenly , she was unsure what to say. Frank was here. His cheeks had hollowed somewhat and his glasses were gone, but he was here. And he was offering that familiar half-assed smile while her throat constricted. The anticipated lightheadedness mounted, and when he finally spoke, her skull felt tight.

"Leave is a couple of weeks from now, and I had to make a formal request to my corporal. But I pulled a few strings, and now I’m here."

Frank jostled his sloping shoulders. He’d been a sheepish, rail thin boy and three rushed months of training and a yearlong tour had starched him into a green jacketed twenty year old struggling to add bass to his voice.

"I’m glad you’re back."

She kept her voice low, and when she hugged him a fine rabbity tremble shivered beneath her arms and fingers. The question that caught tearfully dormant in her throat was answered with a high thin laugh from Frank.

"Not for long."

He stared at his black standard issue boots and the forgotten cigarette dwindled to ash between his fingers. Some part of her brother still existed. She could see her late father’s nose and her own knowing glances. But the rest of him was replaced with something hard– something distant that lingered about his mouth and expressions. And although he was more muscular and broader of chest than he’d been six months ago, she’d never seen him so brittle.

"You smoke now?"

He answered with the nonchalant smile of someone humoring a stranger.

"Yeah."

"Hey, come home for dinner tonight. Momma’s got a million new recipes, and–"

Frank’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement and he regarded her through squinted eyes.

This time last year He’d burst through their door barefaced and sweating with his draft card in hand. At the time, it had taken her a minute to notice what was different about him and when she finally confronted him he claimed he’d forgotten his glasses at home. Months later, upon receiving a damning look from the postman and a late letter from Frank, she realized he must have memorized the vision test.

She fell silent upon realizing He wasn’t scowling at her, but was looking over her shoulder. And she started when a familiar bleat sounded from the far side of the cathedral.

"I found food!"

Ginsberg hurried through the maze of the pews brandishing a chicken leg– his eyes flitting over the stained glass windows and peering into the basin of the baptismal with mild interest. He stopped every couple of paces to wave at her– gesticulating wildly in an attempt to avoid crossing the entire sanctuary. When she didn’t make any effort to move he stopped below a bust of St. Peter and waved the chicken leg with greater sweeps of his arm.

"Who’s that?"

"His name is Michael."

Ginsberg waved the chicken leg.

"Is he Val's friend?"

Stomping toward them in half anger, Ginsberg tripped over his feet with great ceremony.

"He's my date."

  

* * *

    

There’s nothing like watching two people you barely know get crazier and crazier about one another.

A couple at the table across from them burst into exaggerated laughter, and Dawn slid further and further down in her seat.

"Jeez. You know them?"

"I attend this church. I know everyone here."

Her typical politeness had been waning from the minute he saw her outside of the agency. And it evaporated entirely when the couple howled with renewed vigor and Dawn groaned out loud.

"Who’s that guy? The one that keeps looking over here."

She smacked her untouched cake with the flat of her knife and answered without turning around.

"That's William."

And she hated him. She didn’t offer anything outside of his name, but he saw it in the bitter thinning of her lips and in the scowl she directed toward the tablecloth.

"Hey, do you wanna leave?"

He didn’t want to, really. The food was plentiful and ridiculously good, if strange. She’d steered him away from fried planks of what was apparently catfish and he’d ignored her warnings about the spicier foods to his own chagrin. She glanced over the rows of tables to the salvation of the door and he considered retracting his question .

"No."

She glanced  at the door behind them, this time skating her eyes over William and his screeching date.

"Do you want to dance?"

She asked him on the tail of a sigh, and she jumped once when he slapped the table with both hands, and again when he tugged her toward the scuffed dancefloor.

"Why the hell not?"

  

* * *

   

He was really an awful dancer, but she disguised it well enough; pulling him in the right direction after each misstep and suffering in silence when he stepped on her toe.

And despite his dogged efforts to avoid it, he was having fun. Although his heart was thundering in his throat and his breath was short it felt… different, not bad.

It hit him hard a couple of times– that she was very close and warm beneath his hand– and that the gatekeeper of Don’s citadel was a woman who was effortlessly dancing circles around him.

And she was singing quietly to the left of his ear– keeping to the beat with a small humming sound that he was using to keep himself from tripping over her feet. The last time he’d danced was when he’d gotten shitfaced during Purim. And he was fourteen. And he was alone.

"What song is this?"

His voice came out strangely– thick and breathless– and Dawn cracked a knowing smile when he cleared his throat.

"Heat Wave."

She was so caught up in dancing that she didn’t notice the stares they were attracting, and a bony angular woman lounging in a folding chair and supporting an enormous purple hat forcefully crossed her arms and glowered at him.

"Who’s that?"

Dawn raised onto her toes and craned her neck to make up for the height difference, and when his heart raced again with something not unlike panic he was grateful when she pulled back from him and her thumbs didn’t graze so close to the sides of his head .

"That’s Mother Nichols. She’s–"

Her mouth twisted into an odd shape, and before he knew it she was laughing and her head dropped to his shoulder– the bridge of her nose pressing into the fabric of the shirt that his father had whined about ironing.

"She’s the minister’s mother, and she hates just about everything. You know anyone like that?"

She didn’t give him time to respond.

"She’s been mad as hell as long as I’ve known her. She’s probably upset because people are dancing on Sunday instead of lying around ruminating in the glow of her son’s message."

"I don’t get it."

"It’s the Sabbath."

"Today isn’t even the Sabbath. She’s mad about nothing."

Her mouth straightened , but the soft edges of the laugh twinkled in the corners of her eyes.

"Of course."

The music changed abruptly– to some song that was sweet and slow that poured like syrup and Dawn stiffened and heavily dropped her arms between them– pushing lightly at his chest before he released her.

"I think I need to sit down."

When she led him away from the frantic motion of the other dancers she didn’t let go of his hand.

  

* * *

   

They sat at a covered table that dipped in the middle with age and overuse. Dawn had a soft spot for this table– it held up the piles of gifts at her cousin’s weddings and the food at her brother’s graduation only to be scrubbed clean and folded to lean against the wall after both. And now Ginsberg was rolling the small tomatoes he’d plucked from his fourth plate of food into the sloping center of it in undisguised boredom.

"Who was that kid you were talking to?"

"Which one."

"The boy that looks like he lost his best friend."

"He did."

He garbled around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Did what?"

"Lose his best friend."

Dawn twisted the petals from a wilting member of her bouquet and dropped them onto her plate.

"On his last active tour, he was supposed to report to some officer in someplace called Chu Lai and the lead Jeep in their convoy bumped over a mine buried in the trail."

She collected the petals into an orderly pile and began to strip off the leaves.

"Frank was third in line, so he came home with all his fingers and toes. But his C.O. never made it to base, much less back to his family. They were very close."

"So you’re against those fuckers in Washington too, huh?"

At that she drew into herself– removing her gloves and rolling the leaves and petals between her fingers until the strong grassy smell made her nose itch.

"I don’t want to talk about it."

She brushed the petals onto the floor.

The hair rose on her neck when an oily tenor slurred over her shoulder.

"Long time no see, Miss Chambers."

Dawn crossed her legs at the knee before offering a bright smile that was counterfeit enough to shatter a mirror.

"Hello, William. How are you?"

"I’m quite fine, quite fine. Who’s your friend?"

Ginsberg stared at him with vague animosity.

"This is Michael Ginsberg. We work together."

Ginsberg accepted William’s proffered hand before dropping it and returning to his mountain of mashed potatoes.

"You always were the working girl. How’s life been treating you lately?" His date giggled at his side, and Dawn was rankled to note that she was tall and bright-eyed and beautiful as sin.

"I’m fine."

William was obviously taken aback by her curtness, but she didn’t care, and rising to her feet she faced him squarely. The last thing any member of this congregation needed was something else to gossip about. William’s date tossed her shining waist-length hair and snidely appraised Ginsberg who stared back with his typical flat expression and yawned.

"Where you goin’, babygirl?"

A month ago that would’ve been all the convincing she needed. She’d be running her fingers through that flat top before his giggly old date knew what had happened, and trying to decide if she was going to gaze lovingly into his good or lazy eye. But a girl can only be picked up and dropped so many times before she tires of it.

"We were just leaving."

Dawn couldn’t confidently say why, but suddenly his vacillating clinginess and distance made him irrelevant as hell.

"Come on, Michael."

Ginsberg rolled his eyes at the use of his familiar name and took the church’s plate with him.

  

* * *

    

Dawn stopped walking just before she reached the heavy oak doors and turned sharply to the right. She ushered him into a small enclave that trembled with candlelight and perched on a rickety chair.

"If I leave too early, my mother will ask why I’m home."

"So what’s up with you and that guy?"

He watched her fingers disappear into her gloves, and he looked around the small space for a place to sit while she smoothed her skirt.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"It’s a long story."

"I like long stories."

He didn’t. But he wanted to hear this one.

"He seems popular with the ladies."

He stood while she was seated, and she looked up at him through the dimness, supporting her head with her hand.

"Please. Don’t nobody like his boring old ass." The slip in her carefully constructed sentences wasn’t lost on him.

"He owns a couple of convenience stores on the West Side and one near the Apollo, and every woman in every Abyssinian Baptist Church within a ten mile radius is chasing after him like a hound in heat."

"He gives me the creeps."

"I know! He’s weird as hell– always requesting that same Bettye Swann track so he can put the moves on some unsuspecting girl."

"Who’s Bettye Swann?"

"New girl– smoother than Aretha but less sugary than Diana. "

His stare was blank enough to prompt a laugh from Dawn.

"Why are you hiding from him in a closet?"

"This isn’t a closet. I think It’s a prayer room. Me and Val used to hide out here when services got too long."

She gestured toward the phalanx of candles and toward a window that depicted some unfamiliar story that must have occurred after their faiths diverged.

“It’s not like I don’t want to show you off or anything, but everyone in this damn town talks too much.”

He wondered what she was thinking. Her expression wasn’t giving him anything– he had a difficult enough time decoding other people’s thoughts when they were speaking to him.

"It’s funny because we were all friends once. Me and William and Val–" she began.

She talked to him for what felt like minutes but were actually fluid hours– about people he didn’t know and a few he’d met that day, about errands she had to run for her mother before the weekend ended– about everything and about nothing. And for once, he didn’t speak, didn’t ask her anything– although he wanted to ask if she could do that spin thing again or if she would teach him how to make the smiles come easily.

She talked until a number of the candles melted to transparent liquid. And when the afternoon sun combined with the the stained glass to paint the walls warm blue and purple and green, Dawn lifted her chin from her hand in alarm.

"You’ll want to be past 96th before it gets dark out here."

  

* * *

  

He couldn’t hear anything beyond the sandpapery scrape of his shoes on the sidewalk and the rustling flight of a gray pigeon startled from roosting.

She was faster than him, and hurrying against the danger of nightfall for his sake. It was just past five, and sweltering for June. And he tore off his jacket to fight the heat– pausing beneath an awning that was translucent with age and full of holes. And hustling to catch up, he realized Dawn wasn’t in front of him anymore.

She’d stopped beneath the awning as well– glaring at her ankle where the shade was more absolute. And the light hit her eyes in a funny way– turning the black-brown of her irises into a swirling reflection of the day around them– darkly mirroring the blue-gray of the sky and the peach of her dress and the popping white of her gloves and of the daisies.

A fluttering breeze rustled everything beneath the arch of the awning, and her hair sailed gently from her forehead for a moment while she bent to adjust the strap of her sandal. The warm air gusted again. And when her dress settled from a domed billow to its natural fluted shape, he unconsciously leaned into the sweet cloud of whatever perfume she was wearing before realizing that she’d stopped halfway in straightening, and was staring at him staring at her.

Blinking in the shadows, she caught him staring at the contrast of sable skin against fabric and he dropped his eyes to calm the unexpected stirring in his blood.

He wanted to ask her so many things– if she was as worried as he was about the new influx of workers when the headless nails running the agency were axing dispensables left and right. He wanted to ask her how she stood it– typing all day long and tabbing her hours while the partners napped and swilled liquor and made a killing.

“I think I twisted my ankle.”

"Dawn."

A cool gray thinned the hot richness of the June evening, and with a resounding crack of thunder, it was raining. Although there had been no hint of it, the water fell in cool flat splashes that plopped onto the sidewalk before steaming away. And in the way of summer rains, it was over almost as soon as it had started– darkening the sky and leaving the air a humid blanket of oppressive jungle wetness.

The water sluiced over him where it had poured through the awning— soaking through his shirt and plastering it to his shoulders. The day was too hot, but he didn’t care. His breath came in short huffs and he felt like screaming, every pore of him was so alive. Dawn was still, and his eyes followed the stark angle of her collarbones to where they disappeared beneath a satin neckline. And soaring on an urge that was pure instinct he wanted very badly to kiss her.

He was no stranger to confusion.

There were nights when he’d wandered downtown, aimlessly stalking through blocks and blocks of orange-lit alleyways until his father found him in the park the next morning. But that was nothing compared to this warm delirium trickling into him— thick like honey and sticky like blood. Hours before, she was just another one of the girls who worked a few yards of carpet away from him.

She’d taken off her left sandal after battling with the snapped ankle strap and was fumbling with the broken heel.

And she was lovely; with her eyes downcast and hair gently curling at the temples.

She’d fared worse than he had. The water dripped from her fingertips and from the hem of her dress, and she shivered and rubbed her bare arms despite the heat. And when he advanced toward her and the promising fullness of her mouth she took a feeble step backward. Dawn gathered her pocketbook to herself— pulled it against her chest— her eyes suddenly stony and impassive, and he knew she was afraid.

"We should hurry."

 

* * *

    

He was bewildering– one minute he was interrogating her, and the next he was looking at her like... that. She wouldn’t accept his arm although her ankle throbbed with each step she took; largely because she’d been thinking indecent things about the slimness of his hips and the outline of his shoulders in that damn shirt. It was difficult being trapped beneath that transparent gaze and admitting he was good looking even without the deceit of candlelight.

Ginsberg was good looking. 

Ginsberg– who’d yelled that he had heartburn during Val’s father’s toast. 

Ginsberg– who’d stolen Meredith’s timecard to draw dancing cranberries on because he couldn’t find any paper. 

Ginsberg– who wore that campy moustache as if it were a privilege– was good looking.

It took half an hour longer than it should have, with Dawn’s hobbling and Ginsberg’s penitent shuffling, but they reached her stoop before sundown and for the upteenth time that day she was at a loss for words because her coworker had wanted to kiss her and she’d jilted him.

When she turned to face him, she was grateful that his shirt had dried somewhat in transit the collar stood stiffly up on one side and wrinkled down on the other. She was glad that his tie was askew, and his hair was a nest of damp tangles. It looked more like him. Standing two steps below her, he stared down the block after that same invisible dog and, God, he was good looking. She mentally repeated her mother’s warnings about fast girls that she’d blissfully forgotten with William.

“You know what I’ve noticed?”

Absorbed in wringing out the sleeves of his jacket, he answered in his typical absentminded monotone.

“What?”

“There aren’t any crickets out this summer.”

Dawn shuffled to her left foot to relieve the pressure on her right.

“Were there ever?”

She leaned against her door and gaped openly at a damp spot stuck to his shoulder when he turned his back to her.

“Yes. Remember my brother?”

Ginsberg turned around, and his mouth quirked .

“We weren’t properly introduced.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

She tested the injured foot and found the pain tolerable if she placed a little weight on it.

“His name is Frank. He and I would listen to the crickets on summer nights. The park is swarming with them, you know. And they usually sing in the summer.”

Her body heat competed with the chill of the looming nightfall, and Dawn found it difficult to rub her arms while balancing and leaned against the door again. Ginsberg rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Oh do they?”

She could sense it– his lost of interest– and she supposed she was salting a newly opened wound.

"I’d invite you in, but my mother—"

She turned her eyes toward the paling sky in search of wording that would seem tactful.

"She’s old fashioned."

“I understand. I guess I’ll see you Monday.”

Like a bolt from the blue, he smiled.

  

* * *

  

Dawn limped inside to escape the wet and was drawn into her home– the rose and mint living room that was clotted with an overabundance of needlepoint and crowded by Frank’s forgotten shelving system. She wanted to tell Ginsberg something, but she’d already seen him splash around the corner.

She could see him in her mind’s eye– his mouth a wide pink gash that was usually downturned in indignation or annoyance, so often at odds with those strange pale eyes. And she wondered what it would be like to whisper secrets into that mouth– secrets about how much she despised the war that had already killed her brother’s soul and was now coming for his body.

Dawn unthinkingly wrapped a curling lock of hair around her finger. If not for the rain, this hairstyle would’ve lasted a week. She’d have to ask Minnie to miraculously squeeze her in before Monday. Her keys dropped to the carpet with a dull aluminum clatter and she sagged against the copiously needlepointed cushions– not bothering to remove her other shoe and glancing around the dimly lit brownstone. Her mother called from the kitchen.

“How was the wedding?”

She breathed sleepily– slow and even– and her ankle ached.

“It wasn’t as much of a disaster as I thought it would be.”

He had such a nice smile.

The sky opened up again, and it poured.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Just a note about the music:  
> If you haven't listened to any Motown before, please do. Diana Ross, Bettye Swann, Martha and the Vandellas, and the iconic Aretha Franklin are all great places to start. 
> 
> Ack. I forgot to mention this, but in order to straighten most African American hair textures, it's necessary to get a "perm" or "relaxer". This straightens the hair chemically, and is often painful (especially in the 1960s when lye relaxers were popular). In the mid 1960s, women began to wear their hair in a "natural" (colloquially known as an afro) to avoid this process. However, the hairstyle was viewed as unprofessional in many workplaces which makes literally no sense to me.
> 
> I really love Dawn and Ginsberg, and I didn't think they got enough airtime this season AT ALLLLLLLLLL.
> 
> I apologize for any typos or grammatical errors! I don't have a beta yet.


End file.
